


RED

by ravenousgrue



Category: Predator Original Series (1987-1990)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, Good Boy, Hair-pulling, Teratophilia, a tough lady eats out a yautja's wild bugpussy mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26610415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenousgrue/pseuds/ravenousgrue
Summary: Partway through the hunt, he had known.
Relationships: Yautja (Predator)/Original Character(s), Yautja (Predator)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	RED

**Author's Note:**

  * For [larvae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larvae/gifts).



> A commission for an ESTEEMED patron of the arts! Without them, this wouldn't exist.

Partway through the hunt, he had known. They were a tight knit unit, as all successful hunting packs were, but he had been so in sync with her the hunt had been a sort of dance, a hunt  _ within  _ a hunt. As they finished mounting their trophies in camp, she hadn’t needed to look at him to know he would follow her back to her tent, no surprise in her body language when she turned to see him straightening up from the stoop he’d needed to perform to enter. Red Tusk was his name, Big Red was  _ Her  _ name for him, a reference to some obscure thing from a home that was no longer her home, Red the short version of  _ both _ , referencing the deep mottled reds of his hide that bled onto his tusks. It was considered a mark of a great hunter among the yautja to be born with blood already staining their jaws, but like all things among their people, the expectation he  _ earn  _ that status had been  _ great _ .

And he had before they’d come to know each other, the aged scarification on his face marking him not just a man but a  _ survivor _ , and today he’d held her gaze while ripping their prey’s skull and spine from its body without the help of a blade, an intensity meant to display what  _ true  _ trophy he sought.  _ Trophy  _ was an inadequate word for it, and he was certain she had a thousand better ones in her strange, twisting tongue. He was  _ also  _ certain she was not interested in teaching him more words today. Red had more straightforward instruction in mind, anyhow.

She stood facing him, silent as he removed his helmet and flexed his mouthparts in relief, his golden eyes transfixed by her even though she had yet to remove a scrap of her hunting gear, her helmet obscuring her thoughts, hiding the sometimes dazzling acrobatics her face was capable of. He towered over her, enormous by human standards and unusually large for a male of his own species, and still he approached with the same deference he would afford any matron twice his size, head tilted to one side in a show of respect, exposing a throat just as soft as hers was. Though he knew her hearing was different from his and that the subaural clicks of submission that vibrated in his throat went largely unheard, he knew she could still  _ feel  _ them, had come to understand the meaning in her own way.

They had run hard all day, had flexed every muscle and poured everything they were into a long, difficult,  _ exhilarating  _ hunt. Celebration of a successful hunt was not just permitted but  _ encouraged _ . Most sentient life in the galaxy had evolved from predators, and most predators valued times of idle play when they could afford to. The more dominant the predator, the more idle play they could afford.

In her tent were two of the most dominant predators he knew, and of them, her species had turned even  _ play  _ into an intense contest. Her entire civilization played such constant, brutal games with its own kind that it undermined itself,  _ slowed  _ itself, perhaps a mercy to the rest of the galaxy. To be the focus of such power was a rare and coveted decadence. A luxury that, like all things yautja venerated, could  _ not  _ be bought. Only  _ earned _ .

He approached, daring to reach for her only to provoke the response he expected and craved. There was a brief moment he was certain she was going to allow him to touch her without being instructed to do so, that itself a thrill and a surprise, a  _ different  _ sort of game to learn the rules of. In that unguarded moment she  _ struck _ , her open hand small but encased in an unyielding gauntlet with enough force to turn his head, eliciting far more  _ vocal  _ clicks from his throat.

“ _ No _ ,” she said, “On your knees.”

He obeyed without hesitation, swallowing his instinct to reply until she struck him again.

“Yes, Mistress,” he purred. Her speech was hard on his throat, tight and specific, but he had practiced for many seasons now and was proud of how the words rumbled out of his throat with little effort, at least compared to the other member of their trio, a hot-headed youngblood who half-screeched his attempts at human speech, “Sorry, Mistress.”

“Put your hands behind your back,” she said, and he again obeyed. Even on his knees she didn’t have much height over him, but her physical presence was  _ overflowing _ , pressing on the sides of the tent and spilling out into the camp. She spoke in a low, calm voice as she tugged her gauntlets off a finger at a time, revealing her deceptively delicate fingers. The first time Red had seen a human he’d been amused by them, by their frailty, dubious of their value as worthy prey. And like all yautja, nearly being killed by one had quickly changed his opinion. So much of what a human was couldn’t be seen, not unless you learned what to look for. It was their  _ minds  _ that were the most deadly, minds capable of such extravagant brutality it made the yautja look like doltish children.

She first grazed the scar on his forehead, the deft pads of her talonless fingers feeling into the groove of it, tracing it with respect and reverence. When she had learned what it meant, he had done all he could to arrange for her to participate. She existed in a strange liminal space among their kind, female but human, and he had foolishly tried to explain to her that such trials were not necessary, were  _ beneath  _ her. That female yautja had their own secret ceremonies men were not permitted to see more suited to their superior abilities. Besides, what need did a matron, a  _ Mistress  _ have of challenging the most sacred and primal feminine power that existed? Respectful as she was of their ways, as much as she adopted, she was still human and she would  _ not  _ be swayed. After all, as an outsider, she could not know the initiations of the matrons, and so she had insisted on doing what she saw as the next best thing.

Her fingers trailed outward, exploring the broad ridges of his forehead and face, familiar and alien to her all at once. His purring became more audible, eyes fluttering shut at the unique sensation, savoring how easily she was able to probe the hard angles of his face, relishing that he could feel her curiosity and excitement without her speaking a word or even seeing her face. Even that was calculated, he knew, a means of withholding stimulus from him, starving him of more of  _ Her _ . She knew her value and he knew his. She had the pull of a collapsing star and he was nothing but dust, unable to resist how her mere existence reshaped him.

She cupped his face and tilted it up, stroking her fingers inwards, tracing the flow of his mandible tusks from where they began under his skin to the exposed tips, teasing around the sensitive flesh where the tusks erupted. His purring intensified and he leaned into it, squeezing one of his wrists with his other hand, talons biting into his own skin to keep him from covering her hands with his own. He didn’t want her to have an excuse to pause, however briefly, to reprimand him for his presumption, and he knew that it pleased her too, her freakishly sensitive fingers telling her hyperactive brain that the feel of him was a delight, a building feedback loop of mutual pleasure that they indulged with regularity.

Her fingers slid under his mandibles now and he shivered as she gently massaged the tender folds of flesh that he could only rub or scratch, that a matron wouldn’t even  _ bother  _ with, the rolling purr in his chest building to a steady, wanting  _ growl  _ as she sunk her fingers deep and began to trace the outside of his mouth with her thumbs.

“ _ Please _ ,” he begged, the word more guttural, less refined than he was capable of speaking, his words having absolutely no effect on her slow, deliberate actions. She ignored him, her attention steady, occasionally grazing his out gums before returning her focus to his face. Red groaned and shifted his weight, trying to push his face more insistently into her fingers, and her response was quick, all her fingers withdrawing to slap him harder than last time, more viciously without her glove. She would’ve felt the sting of it this time, but she didn’t even shake her hand out, instead leaning very close and gripping a handful of the tendrils that grew out of his skull, yanking back and forcing his chin up.

The only sound was his heavy breathing until finally he said, “I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“Are you going to behave?” she asked him. He tried to nod but she yanked on his tendrils again, the blossoming pain drizzling down the back of his spine, replacing the dull ache from the hunt with something sharper and more immediate.

“ _ Yes _ , Mistress. Please forgive me, Mistress,” he knew better than to offer excuses. That her form on the hunt had been so exquisite, that he had been thinking about this for days. She pressed in very close, and he was grateful for the mask in that moment, knowing that the full brunt of her gaze might make him  _ misbehave  _ again. Keeping a handful of his tendrils, his neck pulled taunt, she ground a boot into the meat of one of his thighs to purposefully, pointedly leave his groin unstimulated, her approach now one handed, even  _ slower  _ than before. He trilled a whimper and fought to keep still as she traced patterns around the base of what she called his ‘whiskers’, the many black spines that decorated his face, stained red because of the cosmetic mutation he’d been blessed with. She seemed determined to stroke each one, and every time he so much as sighed or wriggled she put more pressure on his tendrils or his thigh, a steady throb at both ends capped with teasing that was nowhere near his mandibles, nowhere  _ near  _ what he wanted.

Somehow, Red managed to remain perfectly still and obedient through the torture, his entire body howling for the release he’d entered the tent for, a release only she could give him.  _ Only  _ her.

Eyes half closed, every muscle in his body tense and hard, he nearly came in his hunting loincloth when the pressure on his skull and thigh suddenly relented and she slipped two of her fingers into his mouth, slipping easily over the damp internal folds, slipping out just as quick, just as easy, and though his hands did jerk out from behind his back, he only gripped his thighs with them, digging in so hard it wouldn’t take much more force to break the skin. The sound he made, something between a howl, a squeal and a purr made her laugh and she stepped away from him, holding the two fingers she’d just teased him with slightly apart from the rest of her hand as she removed her helmet. Her eyes sliced through him like the plasma blue they were, searing,  _ deadly _ , and it was written on her face a thousand ways how pleased she was that he hadn’t forgotten his manners after her little  _ surprise _ .

Holding his gaze, she slid her fingers into her mouth and tasted what was there with her absurd tongue. On top of everything else, humans had a  _ ridiculous  _ muscular tongue, which made sense considering how they vocalized and ate, but it seemed  _ specifically  _ designed to torment him sometimes. After she tasted him she grazed her small but surprisingly powerful - an ongoing theme of her physiology - teeth and sat down, her back to the central pole of her tent, where she’d placed her footlocker.

She curled a finger at him and he crawled forward carefully, mindful not to touch her boots or let a single stray tendril dare brush her thigh. He huddled up in an awkward hunch between her legs, looking up at her, picturing a laser sight trained between his eyes, picturing the superhot plasma that was her eyes vaporizing him in an instant. Red began to purr at her in a way she could hear more easily, a deep bassy  _ thrum  _ that welled up from his chest and reverberated in the still-tingling ridges in his mouth. Begging without words, if only because she’d made it increasingly difficult for him to keep a tight mastery over a language that was clumsy for him to speak.

Red felt a rush of exhilaration as she resumed the massage, thrill knotting up his guts as she began to probe the sensitive folds of his mouth with her fingers. With her trademark human curiosity at first, finding some new pattern to swirl, some unexpected direction to touch, before focusing in on what she knew he liked most. Flesh meant to both broadcast and collect even the slightest vibrations in the air being stimulated so directly was  _ overwhelming _ , and her fingers stroked and slithered  _ mercilessly _ , knowing what it did to him, knowing that he loved it and that it reduced him to  _ this _ . He was just ropes of meat lashed to a skeleton, all of it meaningless, all of it dangling off wherever her fingers were, just a mass of flesh compacted and collapsed until he fit in the palm of just one of her small hands.

“ _ Ple-ease _ ,” the word was croaked, deeper and broken into more syllables than was appropriate for the word, “Please, Mistress,  _ please _ .”

This time his begging was rewarded, and he was unable to stop the chittering groan as she pressed her soft lips first between his eyes, then his gums, and then against the even softer folds of his mouth. Just her lips at first, one of her hands moving to stroke his whiskers while the other assisted her mouth, first to manipulate his mandibles and then to move in concert with her tongue. Her tongue was just as soft as her lips but possessed the same strength as her fingers, her control over it allowing her to tease just as mercilessly.

His ensuing pleas were garbled by the fact that her mouth was over his,  _ in  _ his, sending relentless ripples and waves and torrents of pleasure jolting though him. She’d drawn him in and  _ collapsed  _ him and now he was teetering on the verge of supernova, held in rapturous thrall by her radiance, held together by her will alone, desperate for release but  _ more  _ desperate to  _ obey _ .

Her clever mouth and rigid larynx couldn’t make enough yautja sounds to form a sentence, but there was one word she had learned, one word that seemed almost custom made for the limits of her physiology.

“ _ Red _ ,” she half purred, half grunted directly against the spasming, overstimulated folds of his mouth and that was all he needed to hear, to feel, to half-swallow as he came, both her hands grasping his head to keep it still as she didn’t relent. Red practically choked on the waves of pleasure that she was pouring into him, even as he howled and groaned and he was reduced to a quivering mess. Not until he felt as though his blood had been replaced with helium did she ease off, letting his head rest heavy in her lap, the rest of his body in a boneless heap. One of her fingers gently stroked through his tendrils and traced the hard ridge of his skull while the other still teased just a little outside his mouth now, wiping away the excess saliva drooling out since his mandibles were currently too limp for the task.

“Good boy,” she praised softly, “You can sleep in my tent, tonight.”

“ _ Thank you _ , Mistress,” he garbled, knowing that no matter how badly he’d mangled the phrase, she had heard him. 

They had a  _ knack  _ for understanding each other.


End file.
